


The Hang of It [Translated]

by therm0dynamics



Category: True Detective
Genre: Gen, M/M, de-aged Rustin Cohle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therm0dynamics/pseuds/therm0dynamics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know that you’re suggesting two very different things, right? You’re distinctly implying that either, a. I’m not real, or that b. I’m not a kid.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [The Hang of it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528946) by [Knott](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knott/pseuds/Knott). 



“No, fuck off.”

“Real kids love watching this stuff, Rust.”

“You know that you’re suggesting two very different things, right? You’re distinctly implying that either, a. I’m not _real_ , or that b. I’m not a _kid_.”

“Does this _sound_ like a philosophical debate to you? Just sit down and watch your damn TV show.”

Rust Cohle, the insolent child, obeys him for once. He unhappily curls his legs up and folds himself into one corner of the overlarge sofa, sitting flat and stiff against the backrest as if pressed in place by the barrage of sounds and images emanating from the television. When Marty emerges again from the kitchen, he sees Rust sitting absolutely silently, with his head canted to one side, gnawing at his thumbnail. He’s tense, Marty can tell, agitated, like he’s about half a second away from jumping up and beating the shit out of someone.

Marty decides to be compassionate.

“Salter asked what happened to you,” he says, passing the plate of donuts he’s holding over to Rust, “during the briefing today.”

“Fuck that. Don’t pay attention to him,” Rust says, dislodging his thumb from his lower lip. “Anyways, the fucker’s probably _ecstatic_.”

“If I were you, I’d watch my mouth,” Marty warns. “Remember last month? When we were checking out at the toy store? You cursed off everybody there. _Three times_.”

“They were askin’ for it,” Rust says, unbothered. “What kinda toy store doesn’t sell ant farms?”

“They sold ant farms. Just not the kind you wanted.”

“Yeah. Not the kind I wanted. Meaning, they didn’t deserve to be called a _real fuckin’ toy store_.”

Marty glances over at Rust, who is listlessly poking at the buttons on the remote control and flipping rapidly through the channels. The child looks bored half to death, and the more sympathetic half of Marty’s heart warms again.

This, of course, would prove to be a mistake.

“So, what do you want to do?” Martin asks cheerfully. “Wanna play with puzzles? Toy trains? Or, how about we analyze more photos of dead bodies?”

Rust shakes his head, but, struck with sudden inspiration, perks up, eyes flashing.

“How ‘bout we sneak into the evidence room?”

“ _Hell_ no,” Marty flatly refuses.

“We oughta thoroughly examine the new security system they’ve installed,” Rust says.

“No,” Marty persists. “Do not even start with me, Rustin Cohle.”

“Not even to fuck Salter over?”

“First of all, absolutely not,” Marty replies. “Second of all watch your goddamn language, kid - ”

Rust scoots over on the sofa and drops a sweet, sticky little kiss on Marty’s cheek.

Marty chokes.

Fucking. Goddamn. _Rust_. That devilspawn.

—

The next day, Fauvre corners Marty, demanding an explanation, but Marty can give no good reason for why the keys to the evidence room all coated in powdery, sugary donut crumbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really hope i did this work justice! in any case, this was greatly satisfying to do, and though i'm new here, i hope i can grace this fandom with more translations in the future. 
> 
> because i am a native speaker of both languages, i translate more by "feel" than any technical system. thus, this translation is probably a loose-ish one, but i have tried my best to remain as close to the original chinese as possible while enhancing the readability of the english. 
> 
> any mistakes, mistranslations, and misinterpretations are entirely my own fault.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Beer,” Rust interjects. He crooks two fingers and raps the bartop with his knuckles, a comical motion that lends the young child the air of a regular seasoned old drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's another chapter - i don't necessarily know if i'm going to be this quick with translations in the future, but i shall try. enjoy!

“Gimme a glass of rye,” Marty says, and preempts, “nothing for him.”

“Beer,” Rust interjects. He crooks two fingers and raps the bartop with his knuckles, a comical motion that lends the young child the air of a regular seasoned old drunk. The bartender fills a glass under the tap, scrapes the foam off the top before sliding it over to Marty, and moves to pick up another glass.

“No, he really doesn’t want anything,” Marty says, waving the bartender off. _Honestly_ , he thinks, _why would I bring a child to a place like this, at this hour?_ But just like he was as an adult, Rust was a _odd_ child. The bar, so far, has proven to be one of the rare few places he would stay peacefully put without raising hell.  
  
The barstools are too tall for Rust to climb himself, so Marty hoists him up. He orders food for Rust, a slice of apple pie to shut him up. Rust takes just two bites before putting his fork down again.

“He _knows_ me, Marty.” Rust nods over at the bartender.

“So what? Rust, people _know_ you in every bar from here to Biloxi.”

“Yeah, ’s not the same thing. Tom here used to be one of my informants, so I _really_ don’t think he’d mind if I had a drink. Right, Tom?”

“Are you _threatening_ your ex-informant, Rust?”

Rust props his elbows on the countertop.

“Beer,” he stubbornly repeats to Tom, who glances askance at Marty.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Marty declares loudly and to nobody in particular. “Even though he’s somehow turned into a child, he’s still a son of a bitch. I get it.”

“ _Beer_ ,” Rust repeats for the third time, swinging his dangling legs against the crossbar of the tall chair. A scowl is starting to spread across his face. Marty stares appraisingly at Rust for a long while, until Rust makes a move to lick the foam running down his neglected glass of beer. Marty raises a hand to stop him.

“Don’t you even _think_ about it,” he says.

“Asshole,” Rust says.

“Give me a break,” Marty groans. “Bringing a child into a bar is already bad enough, I don’t need people to see me giving you drinks as well.”

“Is this how you went bald? Worryin’ about this kind of shit?” Rust retorts.

Though Rust is still a real bastard, even as a child, Marty still thinks he’s sort of adorable in a grumpy sort of way - even if he does force Marty to remain constantly vigilant against his constant and repeated attempts to pull stupid stunts. They glare at each other, at an impasse, until Marty finally sighs.

“ _Fine_. Hey, Tom.” Marty indicates a width with his thumb and pointer finger. “Give him two fingers of beer.”

“There exist species of monkeys that can drink more than that,” Rust mutters.

“You shut your mouth,” Marty says, holding up a warning finger in his direction.

Tom slides the beer over to them. Rust, forced to use both hands to hold and sip from the adult-sized glass, looks absolutely farcical. When he finally drains his drink and puts it down, Marty reaches over and swipes off the bit of leftover foam stuck to his face. Rust scrunches up his nose.

“Don’t think I’m gonna be paying the tab,” he says.

“I think what you meant to say was _thank you, Marty_ , you little brat.”

Marty pulls a few bills from his wallet and places them under his empty glass. Rust has already slid off the barstool, face a little flushed.

“Marty?”

“Yeah.”

“I feel … ” Rust hiccups, then blurts out, “I feel funny.”

Well, that's a new one. Marty, expecting a statement more along the lines of _interesting_ or _amused_ , but not _funny,_ looks over at Tom. Tom shrugs noncommittally.

“Tom, about what’s the tolerance level for a kid like him?”

“I take it he's still being a little monster?” Tom deadpans.

Marty can appreciate a bartender with a sense of humor, but the fact remains that Rust really isn’t usually such a lightweight. They really ought to get home now. When Marty picks him up to get to the car, Rust grabs insistently to Marty’s shirt collar and buries his head in the crook of his neck. Marty sees that Rust’s ears are bright red.

“This ain’t anything to be embarrassed about,” Marty reassures him, fighting down the impulse to ruffle Rust’s hair. “You just drank too much, is all.”

“I never fuckin’ _drink too much_ , Captain America.”

Marty’s about to complain, but Rust shifts position, reluctantly wrapping himself around Marty’s waist.

“You know you got a child drunk, right?” Rust mumbles. “Asshole.”

 _Alright_ , Marty thinks. De-aged or not, Rust still hadn’t lost his astounding ability to warp the facts to his convenience.

“You just wait till tomorrow morning, you’re gonna to pay for this,” Rust threatens.

“By all means, do tell.”

“I’m going to put extra marshmallows in your cereal. _Twice as many._ ”

“Oh God, blackmailing at such a young age,” Marty says, mostly to himself as Rust has suddenly fallen silent. “Hey, Rust?”

Marty shifts to get a better look at the child clinging onto him, but stops when he realizes that Rust has already fallen asleep in his arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kid!rust's age isn't specified, but i imagine he's like 6-ish? way too young for these shenanigans, certainly ;D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rust swiftly flips him off - thankfully, it goes unnoticed by the store’s other patrons. Marty wonders what it says about him as a parental figure that he considers returning the favor.

They’re standing in the middle of children’s section with a shopping cart full of clothes that have already been picked out when Marty spots Rust surreptitiously pulling a shirt from the bottom of the pile and trying to hang it back on the rack.

“And what’s wrong with that one?” Marty asks.

“It has a bear on it,” Rust says sullenly.

“Yeah, so? You have something against bears now?” Marty grouses. “Did you get mauled by one or something while you were in Alaska?”

“No, you idiot. I’m just not gonna wear anything with a _cartoon_ on it,” Rust says, unhappily staring down the row of clothes racks.

Marty examines the shopping cart as Rust picks out two more shirts - another bear, and a zebra.

“They’re not gonna bite, you know,” Marty deadpans.

Rust swiftly flips him off - thankfully, it goes unnoticed by the store’s other patrons. Marty wonders what it says about him as a parental figure that he considers returning the favor.

“Look, you need new clothes,” Marty says, trying for reason. “Your old clothes - hell, we both know you can’t wear your old clothes anymore.”

Rust gloomily glares down the long aisle of clothes racks again and jams his hands into his pockets. “I have other things to wear,” he mutters.

Marty is now certain that Rust is purposely trying to piss him off. “Let me get this straight - you’re talking about Crash’s outfit, right?”

“There is nothing wrong with them.”

“Except you can’t just dress like a half-sized biker thug around the other kids.”

Rust keeps silent and viciously rips a tag off an article of clothing. Marty knows that not being able to clothe himself according to his own wishes must be downright aggravating for Rust - but hey, that’s just the fucking world he’s living in now. Though, truthfully, even as an adult, Rust could hardly be called _stylish_. On a good day, he looked like he barely _tolerated_ modern fashion.

“Lemme think,” Marty says, and pauses. “We’ll try and find some simpler clothes for you, then. Plaid, or stripes, or something. There’s nothing here without _some_ kind of pattern on it, Rust.”

“Nothing yellow,” Rust concedes with an intimidating glower. “Or _argyle_.”

“Victory at last,” Marty cheers sarcastically, raising both hands in mock victory. “You know, you’re reminding me a lot of Audrey - _Dad, I don’t wanna wear this, Dad, you just don’t understand my style, Dad, girls don’t need to dress themselves according to your ideals_. You’re not gonna win with me, Rust. I’ve had this discussion before.”

“Sure,” Rust nods. “I guess that’s why Audrey’s not talking to you any more, huh?”

Marty gapes, struck speechless. He whirls around to hang the shirts back on the rack, but Rust snatches them away and throws them into the shopping cart. Marty scowls at Rust, who averts his gaze and rolls the cart away.

“Don’t give me that look, or else I might change my mind again by the time we get to the checkout.”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Marty says, voice low. He regains control of the shopping cart, which is too large and unwieldy for Rust to maneuver, anyway.

On their way out, they pass through another aisle of clothes and pause when they spot a kid-sized leather jacket. Though it’s meant for someone a little bigger than Rust, Marty decides the details, at this point, are inconsequential.

Rust hesitates.

“I - “

“Try it on,” Marty interrupts.

When Rust slowly emerges from the fitting room, he looks himself over and shrugs. Marty cracks a smile.

“Well?” Rusts asks with his patented interrogative  _and you better tell me the honest truth, you fucker_ tone of voice. Marty resists the urge to grin outright.

“Just grab a water pistol and you’re all set to rob a Lego store,” he says, and Rust _hmphs_. “I mean, you have a jacket like this already, but whatever. You could use one in this size.”

Rust hesitates. “Can I wear this over to the cash register?”

Marty shrugs. _Why not._ They join the line for the register.

“Aw, what a little sweetheart,” the punk girl standing behind them whispers to her friend. Rust overhears them and instinctively moves to hide himself behind Marty. He’s unused to the attention of others, unused to being regarded as a _cute little kid_. Marty takes Rust’s hand.

Rust is conspicuously quiet during the walk back to the car. As Marty starts the engine, he casts a worried glance over at the small child. _Maybe he’s still not used to his … situation_ , Marty thinks. _Maybe bringing him to the store was a mistake - all that human interaction might’ve been too stressful, especially given everything that’s happened to him recently …_

“Marty, I’m fine,” Rust snaps, startling him.

“What?”

“You have that _I’m so very worried for this poor child_ expression written all over your face. I can’t stand that shit.”

“Shut it,” Marty says, and then, “Do I really have that expression?”

Rust nods pompously. “Makes you look even more ridiculous.” They’re both silent for a moment. “You know, I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier,” Rust says. “About Audrey.”

Marty starts again as he realizes that _Rust_  had just _apologized_ to him. Apparently, there were some upsides to Rust being de-aged.

“It’s alright,” Marty reassures him, though he strategically doesn't reveal that he’s already thought of a way to get his revenge. “Doesn’t matter.”

Rust looks warily at him. “You said that way too quickly. What’s the trick, here?”

When they get home, Rust immediately figures out why Marty was so forgiving earlier. Somehow, without him noticing, Marty had snuck a garish cartoon-print blanket into the cart.

The look on Rust’s face is _priceless_.

Rust doesn’t speak to him for a week after that, but Marty doesn’t mind, because the sight of Rust swathed in that ridiculous blanket is _so_ worth it.

_Sweet, sweet revenge._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> real talk, i was grinning like a fool the whole way through this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old lady retreats back to the chair opposite the pair. Marty smiles in what he thinks is a reassuring manner, but she only clutches tighter onto her purse.

Marty sits in the dentist office’s waiting room, reading a newspaper. Rust sits on a stool beside him, engrossed in a book entitled _Sex Crimes_.

The old woman sitting across from them casts furtive glances at Rust, then at Marty. Marty pretends not to not notice.

After fifteen minutes of watching Rust leaf through page after page, the woman looks once more at Marty and sits herself down next to Rust.

“Sweetie,” she whispers. “Are you here with him?”

Rust slowly sets his book down, like he’s just caught on that she’s addressing him. Marty licks his lips and motions at Rust, who tries his level best to interpret Marty’s vague flailing gestures.

“Yes … no?” Rust says. “Why do you care?”

The old lady retreats back to the chair opposite the pair. Marty smiles in what he thinks is a reassuring manner, but she only clutches tighter onto her purse.

“You shouldn’t let a child read _that_ ,” she declares in a quavering voice.

“Oh, this - this isn’t what you think,” Marty says, glancing helplessly at Rust. “Look, I scheduled the dentist’s appointment for him this morning, and for all the years I’ve known him, I only _just_ found out that he hates the dentist - well, he hates a lot of things, but whatever, he said reading a book would help him relax. He picked this out himself.”

Marty thinks he’s explained himself perfectly, but the old lady just stares and moves further away from them.

“Pervert,” he hears her mumble.

Marty watches Rust flip through another few pages, completely oblivious to everyone else in the room, and wonders why the damn kid can’t also make the effort to hide his precious notebook from the public view.

_Great. Now everybody’s staring._

Marty clears his throat, stands, and signals for Rust to follow. _Mr. Charming’s_ just going to have to interrupt private reading time.

Five minutes later, Rust returns to the waiting room with his book now wrapped in ads for car repair shops. Marty has also confiscated his notebook, to keep him from taking down such _illustrative_ notes and images.

When the nurse calls his name, Rust doesn’t move a muscle.

“It’s your turn, Rust,” Marty hastens.

Rust flips his book shut and fixes him with a glare. “Suffering and boredom are the only two stages of human life, Marty. And people always establish these personal boundaries as the boundaries of the world as a whole, but fuck that. There are no boundaries in this world at all.”

Marty guesses this is Rust’s way of saying _I hate the dentist_. Not many kids would quote Schopenhauer to express that particular opinion , but Rust - fuck, Marty doesn’t even want to deal with him right now.

After Rust leaves the waiting room, everyone starts to gawk at Marty.

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special apologizes this chapter to schopenhauer, who i can barely understand in english and probably butchered mid-translation. i am not a philosopher.
> 
> anyway, i hope you all enjoyed this!


End file.
